


Confessionals

by goodworkperky



Category: The Originals (TV)
Genre: Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:52:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4187505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodworkperky/pseuds/goodworkperky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come to pray for repentance, Marcellus?” Klaus’ voice rings of the walls and the open rafters of the old church. “A few Hail Marys isn’t enough to wash your soul clean, I’m afraid.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confessionals

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone reads this, I'll be amazingly surprised.  
> This can be placed mostly around the end of S1

Marcel lights the church candle with a certain type of hesitation. Thin tendrils of smoke curl their way heavenward with serpentine grace, flames flickering and melting red wax like congealed blood. It fits. And Marcel knows this as he kneels down in the pews with hands pressed together and a ‘Hail Mary’ spilling from his lips in a whisper. This isn’t a prayer. No, this is a reconnection. Marcel is trying to find that last bit of himself that remembers how to be human. 

Inhale. Exhale. Each breath hurts. The exhales catch at the back of his throat. 

“Come to pray for repentance, Marcellus?” Klaus’ voice rings of the walls and the open rafters of the old church. “A few Hail Marys isn’t enough to wash your soul clean, I’m afraid.” 

“Go away, Klaus,” Marcel demands in a breath of exasperation. He keeps his eyes forward, won’t dare turn around to see the smug expression he knows is there. He thought he could find some sort of peace here, neutral territory. But war goes where war wants. 

Niklaus gives a short, humorless laugh. The benches creak as he takes a seat behind Marcel. “I am not worthy to witness the absolution of your sins? Am I too much the devil?”  
“Go to hell,” Marcel responds in a voice akin to a growl. But he takes a breath and that anger firing up in his chest dies down. “Please, just leave me alone. I’m asking you, Klaus.”  
There comes a moment of silence in which Marcel would have thought himself alone if he had heard Klaus leave. But he didn’t. The hybrid is still sitting behind him. He is waiting for something that Marcel is too tired to give. 

Seconds ticks by into minutes and Marcel is trying to ignore the growing itch of discomfort settling in between his shoulder blades. Then the silence is broken by Klaus slowly rising. A hand comes to rest on the vampire’s shoulder. Unsure of Klaus and his intentions, Marcel moves faster than eyes can follow. Teeth clench and chest heaves with quick breaths, but eyes are red-rimmed and tired as he stares at Klaus.

“You can’t ever just let me be, can you?” Marcel asks quietly. 

Lips part in an attempt to reply, a hand goes out absentmindedly. Klaus steps forward and his hands fall to his sides. Palms are open to face Marcel. “Truce. I do not wish to fight tonight. Not with you.” 

“You don’t know how to do anything but fight.” 

Klaus’ brow furrows in slight confusion, a soft growl of frustration welling in his throat. “What is it that really hurts you, Marcellus?” 

“You,” Marcel replies. That anger stirs back up, rages against his ribcage. His voice lowers to a growl. “You and your family and this place. You always have to suck people into a war they never wanted to fight. I am exhausted. And I wish there was something out there that could hurt you.” There is and now a thousand people know it. But going after Hope is not an option for Marcel. 

Klaus’ jaw clenches and a low growl builds up in his chest. But he looks hurt. “Et tu, Marcel? Veux-tu voir me mourir?”  
And this is what makes Marcel’s knees weak. This is the language his mother used to whisper to him barely louder than the crickets, the one Rebekah used to sing softly when nightmares crept up too quickly, the one Klaus used to shout in when he swung a young Marcel onto his shoulders and give his praise. This is theirs.  
Knees go weak. “Non,” Marcel breathes. “Je ne veux pas ça. I don’t want you dead. I want to know why. I couldn’t be enough for you, for Rebekah—”  
“She would have hurt you,” Klaus snaps. “My sister gets bored of men as easily as she get bored of books. If I let you carry on you would have been left heartbroken. What else was I to do?”

“Then what about you? What’s your excuse?” 

“Need I remind you that it was you who summoned Mikael—”

“I was twenty-three. Before you turned me, before I made my father kill himself. We rode for miles to nowhere—just you and me. And I kissed you. You remember that? And for a second, you kissed me back. So I ask you again, Klaus: what is your excuse?” 

For a minute, Klaus merely stares. And Marcel knows he remembers. It’s hard to forget the smell of the horses, the sweat on their skin drying in the evening air. They had sat together, laughed, shared a canteen, and Marcel had kissed him. Daringly, Marcel had caught Klaus in a kiss. There is a second of hesitation and Klaus returns the kiss, leans close, puts a hand gently on Marcel’s neck to run a callous thumb along his jaw. And then he is gone. Marcel is left with two grazing horses, lying back on the grass wondering why.

Niklaus press his lips in a thin line. Eyes watch his protégé warily. But he stays silent. 

“Yeah,” Marcel says in a quiet laugh. “That’s what I thought. At least my father made very clear where he stood.” 

“That’s not fair.” Klaus’ hands clench at his side. “I did as best I could with an impossible choice.” 

The vampire tucks his hand in his pockets and shrugs slightly. “You’re right. I just…wasn’t family. I wasn’t valuable enough.” 

He turns to go—out the back so he doesn’t have to move pass Klaus. Slow footsteps on worn wood floors. He makes it as far as the flickering exit sign before a strong hand grabs hold of his arm.

“Let go, Klaus,” Marcel says without bothering to look back. 

Surprisingly, Niklaus does as he is told. He stands with less than a foot between them, staring at a spot between Marcel’s shoulder blades. “I couldn’t understand why,” he whispers beneath his breath. “Did you love me because of what I had done for you? Was it for what I could do?” 

“I just wanted you.” 

“And I would have hurt you. But therein lies my greatest flaw; I cannot change. If I were a better man maybe I would have stayed with you that day. Maybe we could have avoided the painful trials and tribulations that lead us to this moment here. Marcellus—”

Before Marcel can think better of it, he’s pressing up against Klaus. Lips press together in a kiss that seems tinged with electricity. The exit sign is buzzing. Candle wicks give quiet snaps. Marcel pulls away, moves more quickly than the eye can follow. He is out the door before Klaus can speak, and he stands in the back of the church with a hand on the brick wall, head spinning, mouth gone dry. Head tilts back and he’s staring at an empty night sky. Breath escapes in a thin cloud. The vampire wipes sweaty palms on the sides of faded jeans and walks down the street with measured footfalls. He runs his tongue along his lip and the taste of Klaus lingers.

There is a tentative opening of the church door. Marcel pauses with hands in his pockets and stare fixed straight ahead. But there is no reply, to demand for him to wait. He keeps walking with a shiver building its way down his spine. And before he can make it to the street, Marcel can hear rapid footsteps. He turns and Klaus is putting his hands on the other’s chest, pushing him back against the wall. 

“You are valuable, Marcel Gerard,” Klaus says in a breath. He clasped the vampire’s face gently between his palms. “Never has a moment passed when I did not regret leaving you alone that day. But I cannot be vulnerable because of you.” 

Marcel rests his hands on Klaus’ wrist and pulls out of his touch. “That’s your problem. Maybe if you were a better man, we could have had something better. But now we just have this.” 

Klaus blinks and tears prick the corners of his eyes. He nods slightly, swallowing hard. Hands go to the pockets of his jacket. “Goodnight, Marcel.” 

Marcel’s fingertips ghost over the other’s arm. He gives a soft smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and drops his hand. “Goodnight, Klaus.”


End file.
